


Your Ballard

by Kastaka



Category: Tam Lin (Traditional Ballad)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 11:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17000388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: All this is yours, he'd say.





	Your Ballard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aedifica (millefolia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millefolia/gifts).



You've really done it now. 

Dad always had a flair for the dramatic. He liked to take you up the water tower; "All this is yours," he'd say, and dramatically gesture at the countryside, fields and hedges and little wooded dells stretching off to the horizon.

The other girls at your sixth form were more practical - more scared. They would whisper to each other, whisper of the bad people, the bad places, why you don't see Margaret for a few days and then she's throwing up and still putting on weight.

You make a point of befriending the bad people and going to the bad places. They are strangely beautiful - the people and places both - and nobody bothers you when you're assertive. Nobody hassles you when they know your dad. 

He's there when you wade the stream, skirts hiked up, good walking boots keeping your feet dry. Usually out here you're alone and you like it that way. You like people, sure, but in measured doses.

At first he just watches you. He reminds you of the deer - sometimes if you are lucky and spot them in time, and make no sudden moves, they'll freeze like this for a moment to look at you before bolting. 

You gently raise your hands. "I come in peace," you joke. 

"That's what all the Martians say," he responds, shyly, not sure how it will land. Your grin emboldens him. "Then the next thing you know, the ray guns come out, and - poof, you're gone."

You sit on a fallen log. "It's usually 'zap'," you offer.

He also takes a seat, still warily, still far enough away to bolt.

"So what's a nice girl like you doing down in Carter's Hollow?"

You consider, discard the sensible explanations. I wanted to get away from it all. I don't really believe anything can hurt me. "My dad said it belonged to me." You recall the water tower, the shadow of the city limits straining against the green belt.

"Yeah," he says, suddenly downcast, bitter. "You lot think everything belongs to you, don't you?" 

"It belongs to you, too," you say quickly, uncomfortably.

Of course you don't shag him the first time you meet him. That would be reckless even for you. Also the ground's not great for that at the best of times, and down in Carter's Hollow it's got those discarded cans and plastic, bits of broken glass, burn scars from illegal fires, that mean there are probably syringes lurking down there too.

He solves the problem for you, sitting one day on an abandoned mattress with a shy smile. You don't ask where it's from. You admire his ingenuity and commitment, and a few other things besides.

That's why you find yourself throwing up, and putting on weight.

There's a simple test from the pharmacy and you use it. Your dad sees the packet in the bin and finally puts two and two together.

"You know," he says awkwardly, "there are options, these days…"

"I want to keep the baby," you say. It comes out in a rush. You hadn't really decided until that moment, but it's true now. You know it's not going to be easy. You hate vomiting. But you want to keep the baby.

"Do you have any idea whose it is?" he asks, gently.

"I know exactly whose it is," you assure him. "How many boys do you think… No, wait, don't answer that."

He smiles, the slightly lopsided smile he uses when he thinks you're wrong but loves you too much to try and change you.

You give your love the good news. He doesn't think it's good news. He looks outright scared, for the first time in a while, looks like he might bolt off into the woods and never return.

"If my ma finds out, she'll kill us," he says, and he doesn't seem to be at all exaggerating. "She's very... traditional, you see."

"Is there anything we can do about it?" You hate to see him this way. Since he got to know you, he's always been confident, cheeky, cheerful.

"I don't know," he says, burying his face in his hands, trying not to show you his pain. "There are things you can do, these days…"

"I already had that from my dad," you tell him, firmly. "It's ours - it's mine - I'm keeping it. With or without you." 

He looks up, and he's clearly been trying not to cry, without much success.

"I guess you'll have to meet her, then."

They say all kinds of weird things about his people, and of course none of them are true.

You put on your most modest clothes, something you might wear to church if you went to church, you suppose.

You make sure that your dad knows where you are going, which you never do, and that you expect to be back before tomorrow morning, which you hope gives you plenty of time.

You get on a bus, because you don't want to be worn out from walking, and showing up in a taxi would give the wrong impression, even if you could find one which would take you.

You watch the map on your phone anxiously, and everyone is slightly confused when you press the stop button and get off here. The driver asks you if you're sure before opening the doors. Of course you're sure. You're pretty much always sure.

People stop to watch you cautiously, but nobody approaches you, even when you head up the stairs outside the building. It reminds you of doing political leaflet delivery, back when you had some hope for a political candidate. You had a bundle of fake newspapers to mutely demonstrate why you were out of place, then, and you knew that your dad was nearby doing his own rounds. But you are more confident now.

You try ringing the doorbell. It is obviously not connected. You're slightly worried the button might fall out. No problem, you've done this before when they were teaching you to canvass. You rap smartly on the door a few times, then listen, counting to 60 so you don't do it again too soon, ready to escalate if you need to.

Someone is moving inside. Muffled shouting. The tiny but unmistakable sound of that little metal bit that covers the spyhole being moved aside, and then the chain rattling as it's taken off.

"You'd better come inside," says the old, nervous lady who finally opens up.

You are, of course, subjected to tea and also biscuits. The mug is chipped, the biscuits are broken. 

And the interrogation begins.

You lose track of the aunts and cousins and such.

You don't get to see him at all.

At the end of the interview, someone brings your coat, one of the wide eyed children who say nothing at all.

You accept the signal, get out of the house, get on the bus. It's a couple of stops before you start weeping inconsolably. It's been one of those days.

It's several days later when he turns up at your doorstep. This is somewhat concerning, as you have never given him your address. He's carrying a bin bag and looking deer-like again, so you invite him in. 

You don't actually drink tea and have no idea where your dad keeps the stash of tea bags for builders and decorators and so on. You're not very good at making tea anyway. You offer him a glass of water and anything he feels like from the kitchen.

For a moment his old confidence shines through. "Anything?" he asks, with a twinkle in the eye and a lopsided smile that reminds you of your dad.


End file.
